Rainbow Factory
by ThatPurplyThing
Summary: Now a rainbow's tale isn't quite as nice; As the story we knew of sugar and spice; But a rainbow's easy once you get to know it; With the help of the magic of America's device. America has a secret method to create colors so pure and natural, but it's a deadly one. Inspired by the MLP fic and song by WoodenToaster.


**I have read the MLP fanfic Rainbow Factory (it gives me shivers!), but this isn't really based on the fic at all, but moreso the song it inspired by WoodenToaster, so it's not really a parody of it or anything like 'Pasta' was of 'Cupcakes' (why the hell do you people like that PoS I wrote?!). I decided to do a oneshot inspired by it. I do not own the MLP fic or the song.**

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France took a long drag from the cigarette between his lips, letting the smoke wisp from his mouth like tiny gray-white tongues. The air was clear and cold that morning, the winter slowly settling in from the fall. The sky was a gray-white, the sun not visible. It was still lovely with the peace it had.

He knocked eagerly on the American's door, empty paint can in his hand. That morning, he had been planning to paint his bedroom, but the color he wanted was not available at his local paint store. He then remembered how America always had paint to borrow. And it was always this really good kind. It was almost like pure color pigment, and not paint at all. Not too thin, not too thick. Pefection. America never told anyone how he made the paint, always chuckling, "It's my secret!"

Humming to himself, France was fairly certain his American companion could help him out. He hoped he wasn't still mad at him for teasing his hamburger diet the other day. He seemed unnaturally angry about it.

America opened the door with his signature grin, "Oh hey, Francey! How's it all goin'?"

"I'm doing well, I was just here to ask a favor."

"Oh?"

"I seem to be out of paint, and I was planning to remake my bedroom today. Could I possibly borrow a few pints from you?"

America's smile froze a moment, as if the Frenchman had struck a nerve, but he chirped ever so cheerfully, "Sure!"

"Oh wonderful! Could I have an olive green color, please?"

The blonde paused a moment, then gave an unusual smile, "I don't have that color. But I have an idea that might be pretty cool. Howabout you come on in so I can mix up a different color for you from scratch?"

The other blonde scratched his chin in thought, "But I wanted a green color..."

"Dude, France, I seriously think I'll be able to mix up a color that screams you. I know this color stuff like the back of my hand. I can even show you how I make it!"

"I thought you didn't like people to know about it."

"I'm feelin' generous today."

"Well, alright then!"

"Cool, come on in!", grinned the American excitedly.

_You've done it now, France._

Downstairs, he had shelves of paint buckets, all full of his special creation. All rich vibrant colors that hardly needed to be mixed at all. Mix it in whatever kind of base; acrylic, industrial, oil; and you had a medium to use. Next to one of the shelves was a door that was usually locked, unless America went in there. Inside was his invention.

Ever since he was a little colony, he always wondered where colors came from. England told him it was magic, and he believed it. So he wanted to make color. Not by crayons or brushes, but actually _make_ color on his own. Natural ingredients just didn't do it. They didn't make enough varieties for him. So he did some experimenting.

Legend had said that when the Roman Empire died, he had bled. But something else had flowed and separated from the bright red blood. A shining gold color, pure as the snow that fell in winter. The same legend had been told for the other ancient powers, but of different colors for each. It had given America an idea.

He spent at least three months, inbetween meetings locked up downstairs as he worked on his creation. The opening had grinding blades to open the source for opportnity to take their color, and amidst many machine parts and tubes inside, the color was extracted, pouring out from a tube.

The first experiment was with Canada, his brother. The neighboring country had been going to America's door at least three times a week, worried about how he was not going outside enough. He was just so overbearing and annoying, America was growing quite irritated of him. So he invited him down to see his new machine. Much to his surprise, his twin produced a light lavender color, with no trace of blood, skin, or bone. How clean.

America shared the color at the next meeting, passing it off as paint he made. The others were impressed with it, wondering how he made it so nicely.

At the same meeting, he and China had a big fight. A few days later, the old nation came to his house to apologize. America invited him in. A glittery gold color filled up a few pints, enough to paint his walls in the kitchen. Once again, the others were excited by America's paint. He'd never tell them how he made it, they would just ruin everything.

England had made a couple passing jokes regarding America and his 'rainbow factory', and these did not amuse the former colony at all. Rich emerald green to share with those who asked for it. But still, the name the Brit made kind of had a nice ring to it. Maybe this was how rainbows could be made.

Russia had stared at him one meeting, and he didn't like it either. It didn't matter if he was just staring curiously or not, he had to go. America wasn't going to tolerate putting up with the others' shit anymore; their jokes, their insults, the teasing, anything America didn't like. There was still a bucket of medium violet on his shelf, and from when he last used the machine with Cuba, there was still a shred of the northern nation's bloodstained scarf caught in the blades.

Prussian blue, Hungarian turquoise, North and South Italian green and red respectively, and more colors than America could remember. Occassionally, someone brought up how they hadn't seen a nation in a while, and America just laughed to himself very lightly. When Switzerland went missing, he sweetly gifted Liechtenstein a bucket of bright green paint.

And now here was France, mere days after mocking the American's lifestyle. Not cool at all. The younger nation wasn't going to tolerate slander. How convenient of France to come here now. America didn't really go for the style of approaching them, rather than let them come to him. They always did. And no matter how much they begged, and screamed, and cried, they never got out of that room. Everyone had cried in there; even the stoic nations. What were they crying for anyway? It was a wonderful thing; to bring color to the world so purely.

"What kind of color do you think would suit me best?", asked France nonchalantly as he drug on his cigarette again.

"I'm guessing a royal blue.", smiled the American, leading him down the stairs. France should be very happy now, thought the American. He was going to look so beautiful on his walls.

_In the Rainbow Factory,_

_Where your fears and horrors come true._

_In the Rainbow Factory,_

_Where not a single soul gets through._


End file.
